


Wakeup Call

by LittleTrashLord



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Shota, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleTrashLord/pseuds/LittleTrashLord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>…on second thought you’re sure with absolute certainty that this is illegal because here’s Bro, passed out after a long night at the club, and you’re having no trouble getting his jeans open.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wakeup Call

**Author's Note:**

> CAN BE SEEN ON TUMBLR AT: <http://littletrashlord.tumblr.com/post/129472300397/wakeup-call>

See, the major issue in your life is that you have poor impulse control.  This never really proved to be a problem in the past because everything always works out and really, if you’re feeling the motivation to get out of bed at three am and set to mixing some beats so fine they require the word “hella” as proper description then that’s not really going to hurt anyone.  Except maybe you and your ability to pay attention during first period but eh, c’est la vie.  That’s neither here nor there because mixing after midnight is one thing.  This?  You're fairly sure this is illegal on seventeen levels and you just do not give a single damn.  You don’t even have a single damn to give.  It's a bad habit, this not-giving-a-damn thing you've gotten yourself into but hey, fact of the matter is you're a modern man who likes to take life by the balls and give a nice, firm, satisfying squeeze.    


Okay, you're a preteen boy who barely has balls of his own and you're not sure how to find the great gonads of life to grab onto.  That’s secondary.  Tertiary, even.  Unimportant to the conversation at hand which involves your hands on your brother, and on the topic of balls-- and nope, you’re going to halt that metaphor where it stand because here’s the deal.  You have been harboring a weird little crush that has turned into an even weirder little boner for your brother for a long time and when you say “long time” you mean “I should be in therapy and stay there until I’m thirty.”  Does that come into play here?  Nope, not even the slightest bit because you keep telling yourself you’re fine, you’re okay, and everything you do is within the reasonable realm of curiosity for a twelve year old boy.

...on second thought you're sure with absolute certainty that this is illegal because here’s Bro, passed out after a long night at the club, and you're having no trouble getting his jeans open.  It helps that he was drunk when he crashed and you’re silent when your little fingers pull down the zipper, the click of each tooth too-loud while you listen to his breathing with all the attentiveness of a mandatory school hearing test.  Meaning: your ears are open and you are praying you don't fuck up.  Considering the way you start rubbing at Bro's dick through his boxers the moment his jeans are open there's a decent chance you _can't_ fuck up because you're _already_ fucked up.

Nice turn of phrase; you commit that one to the memory banks.  At the same time you cup your hand over Bro’s junk and marvel at the heft of all the cotton-covered flesh in your little palm and deposit _that_ memory into the spank bank.  There's lots of banks, like how you bank on him being too tired or too drunk or too hungover to wake up while you struggle with maneuvering his prick through the fly of his boxers.  A little difficult when it's someone else's junk and someone else's boxers but hey, you make do.  It's not like this is rocket science, just sexual assault or something and wow, you really don't want to consider that so you just tuck that thought away into the already full inbox of your brain.  Consideration regarding your bunk morality is not what you came here to do.  Self reflection can come later because now all you want to do is marvel over Bro's dick.

Being perfectly honest here?  You have no idea what you're looking at.  From an objective standpoint, sure.  It's a dick.  Issue is you don't have a lot of experience with dick that isn't your own and you're not really sure if he's got a big one or a pretty one or what.  Your knowledge of dick suffers a woeful inadequacy and your life is hard.  What you do know is that even soft he’s a decent handful and Bro's dream either got real interesting all of a sudden or your grabby little paws are having an effect because as soon as you slide your fingers around it he starts to get hard.  Score; his inadvertent cooperation makes your life all that much easier.

Size aside, you realize it's not much different from your own in that it has the same sort of velvety skin over a hard core that you’re familiar with.  His has more veins, the flare on his cockhead is more pronounced - you wonder if yours might end up looking more like that when you get older.  It's a passing thought that you don't dwell on because masturbation is a thing you just recently figured out and trying to extrapolate what your pork sword is going to look like in ten years is more effort than you want to commit to.  That whole train of thought stacks tidy into your brain’s inbox and then the only thing left to think about is what you're going to do with Bro's dick.

Getting handsy with it proves less entertaining than you expected.  It serves the purpose of stimulation and he hardens up in no time, but beyond that?  There's not exactly a lot it's doing for you when the only reaction you get is Bro's breathing, deep rumbles that edge on snoring but fall just short of breaking into that classification of sleep sounds.  So for a few minutes you entertain yourself with squeezing on the tip and pushing the veins around just under the skin because hey; exploration, name of science, all that fun stuff. You're on a mission to discover the secrets of Bro's anatomy with all your senses and you’re two for five with touch and sight down.

The real question is: do you dare put it in your mouth?  Let’s be real: there aren’t a whole lot of different senses and you're not about to listen to his dick and hope to hear the ocean or anything.  Though you do lean forward and give it a sniff because why not - famous last words - you might as well get that out of the way.  Verdict?  Not bad, really.  Kind of musky, kind of sweaty - you assume that's just par the course for him falling asleep in his jeans.  Point is that you get comfortable on your knees next to the futon, get both hands on your brother's dick to hold it steady and then it's open up for the choo-choo train.

...what the fuck, you're twelve not two.  Open up for the hard rod of turgid spam porpoise is more like it.  Except that sounds gross and won’t do at all; either way, before you can really think of a good way to phrase cocksucking in your head you're trying to open up wide enough that you don’t scrape your molars against the sides of all that hard wang that you make one hell of a valiant effort to stuff down your gullet.  At least you have enough sense to know "blowjob" is a euphemism and not how this actually works so in short order (after gagging yourself on it only once) you set to sucking like its the biggest jawbreaker you ever got your hands on.

You're not even ashamed to admit that you like sucking dick.  Not like as in, "yeah, I like art class because it's the least academic part of my school day," but more like, "yeah, I like apple juice, I want a personal drinking fountain of it installed next to my computer."  Meaning that you are all about this, the oral fixation thing is a definite and your dick decides to be helpful and makes a ridiculous-yet-much-smaller-than-Bro's sized tent in your pajama pants.  This is a definite thing that has occurred.  Huh.  Oh, well; nobody's going to mind if you take care of that, right?  Right.

Issue: his dick is too big to keep a proper grip on without some serious double fisting so you have to make do as best as you can with the two little hands you’re stuck with; you wind up with a grip on the base of it with lefty while righty makes for your crotch like there's a bit of urgency at hand.  (Ugh, John would have laughed at that.  You're not allowed to think anymore.  Points off for the accidental pun on top of it.)  Not that it’s difficult to fish your prick out but it’s still more time-energy-effort than you have the motivation to expend in the here and now.  Solution?  You set to rubbing at yourself through your pants instead.  On a good day that gets you going and little more but right now you're turned on enough to where skin-on-skin doesn't even begin to matter.  Between the dick in your mouth and your hand gripping your prick through your pjs you're totally going to get off here and you don't give a single damn how messed up you are for it.

Right up until Bro's palm drops onto the back of your head and all of a sudden you give a lot of damns.  All the damns.  Every last damn in the world; you’re passing them out like you’ve turned into the most damnably charitable person in existence. You are shitting out a mountain of damns in your pants because Bro's hand is huge and his fingers are thick and rough in your hair when they cup around the back of your head.  When you look up he stares back at you with that unreadable expression on his face, the one he always gets while he decides the exact level of rooftop ass beatdown you deserve.

You done fucked up.  Rest in pieces.

"Ballsy lil' fuck, ain't you."  Bro's drawl is heavy as it ever is, his voice thick with sleep and hangover and you know there's a seventy percent chance you won't make it out of this alive.  Not with the thousand pound weight of his hand holding you in place, mouth still stuffed full of his cock and your eyes like tiny red saucer plates staring up at him.  You try to say something, try to defend yourself and your poor life choices, but all that comes out are nonsense words garbled around his dick and a thick drip of saliva that escapes the seal of your lips and runs down his prick to where your hand is latched around the root of it.

He lets the anticipation of the moment hang in the air until you tremble and try to squirm off him and only then does he slide his hand to the back of your neck.  He pets his thumb up behind your ear and gives you a very eloquent grunt that you hope is approval.  You pray it’s approval.  Your prayers are answered in the form of a squeeze on your neck before he presses you down; you remember how to work your mouth and suck and he makes this noise that goes right to your dick and it perks up as if the brief moment of boner-killing panic had never occurred in the first place.

Bro breaks eye contact first, drops his head back and drapes his other arm over his eyes because of the light shining in through the kitchen window and the sunbeam streaked across his face.  Must be murder with the hangover you have no doubts about him suffering through.  It’s not like he has to look at you to you to enjoy what you’re doing, though - that much is obvious when he sets you into a decent rhythm of bobbing on his cock.  You catch your lips just behind the head before dipping further down only to pull back just before you gag.  It’s more involved than the absent slurp-suck you started with but it’s a lot more effective; that aside, it doesn’t take more than a couple minutes to put that whole routine on autopilot so you can go back to jerking your dick through your pjs.

Sex is like strife when it comes to Bro; he’s quiet, just about silent save for his breathing getting a little rougher when he’s engaged and the faint way he hisses his exhales out through his teeth.  It’s familiar which turns out to be a comfort; you’re used to hearing this sort of almost silence from him.  Only difference is that he does this little half groan and the noise hits you like a sledgehammer each time and it very well may be the sexiest thing your preteen self has ever encountered.  It's downright shameful how much you want to hear it more, want to know you’re the one causing it, want him to feel good because it’s your mouth latched around his prick like a little suckerfish; you try to slurp the proof of your good work out of him and he delivers in the form of noises that do nothing short of making your dick throb in your hand.

Other proof comes shortly thereafter and as it turns out Bro is really, really bad at giving warning.  At least he’s nice enough that when he pulls your head down further the tip of his dick is angled at the roof of your mouth to spare you a shot to the uvula.  Even after he’s done spilling in your mouth he doesn’t let go, hand still planted firm on the back of your neck; you guess you aren’t going anywhere until you swallow.  So you do.  Not the worst thing you’ve ever tasted so you give it a passing grade.  An acquired flavor, you assume. You’ll get used to it.  All the connotations that go with “get used to it” are noted and then tossed onto your mental inbox pile to be examined later.  Look at the overflow on this thing, you should hire a secretary already.

It’s about that time that Bro lets you go so you lift off his prick with as much dignity as you can manage, ignore the strings of saliva that dangle between your lips and his cockhead and the way they catch the morning light, and wipe your mouth off on your sleeve.  You haven’t managed to get yourself off yet and it seems that Bro is pretty well done with you because he cleans up and tucks himself away without a word, eyes closed against that sunbeam that doesn’t want to leave him alone.  The sun is a brutal master, ruining people’s sleep and making hangover headaches worse - you would suggest curtains but that’s far more domestic of a purchase than you suspect Bro is capable of or willing to make.  So with that all said and done you’re ready to do the polite thing and abscond to jerk off in the privacy of your bedroom. 

Except you don’t make it to your bedroom.  In fact, you barely make it to standing upright when he grabs your wrist and halts you in your tracks.  You don’t even get to ask what’s up before Bro drags you onto him - no, literally, he drags you right off your feet and you wind up sprawled out half on his chest and half tucked between him and the back of the futon before you can consider what the fuck just happened.  What the hell was that?  Doesn’t he know it’s polite to take a someone to dinner before just yanking them around by their extremities?  Rude.

“Th’fuck was that about?”  He still sounds sleepy but there exists a distinct lack of murder in his voice.  You accept that you’re going to make it out of this alive.  Hallelujah; your celebration is compounded by the realization that you’re just about cuddling him.  That turns out to be as unfamiliar as hearing him moan and you think you might be ready to consider why affection and pleasure are foreign concepts in regard to your brother when his arm - the one not looped around your shoulders - moves so his hand can press against your belly.  Oh, right.  He asked a question.  You should answer that.

“Wakeup call?” you try and he snorts against your hair.  The huff of breath on your scalp does nothing to distract you from his five fingered invasion of your pajama pants, especially not when they wrap around your dick and you make this broken little noise because wow, you’re really needy right now and that is embarrassing as hell.  Bro finds it funny; either that or he’s just chuckling because he randomly decided he wanted to and it’s not related in the slightest to the way you keen and arch against him when he strokes you.

“Helluva wakeup call.”  You try to reply but your mouth won’t make the word noises happen, it makes the moaning noises happen instead and look at that, you’re an uncommunicative mess.  Bro has officially shut off your language center and you don’t give a single damn.  Not when he jerks you off like he knows your body better than you do, not when he holds you close so you can muffle yourself against his chest and especially not when you come in your pajamas with his fingers framing the base of your prick and the palm of his hand warm and firm against your belly.

Bro’s got his hand out of your pjs before you’re even finished with the little aftershocks that make you groan and tremble against him.  Yeah, those are a thing that happens so you chill while they run their course.  Once you can get yourself in order you try to squirm out from the little valley he’s got you tucked into - that idea gets vetoed when his arm tightens around you like some weird arm-python and you find yourself unable to escape.  Whoops.

“Where th’fuck y’think yer going?”  You’re going to harbor a guess that this is more words than he’s ever spoken to you post-club and pre-coffee even if it is more grumbling than anything that bears a remote resemblance to proper enunciation.  That’s fine, you speak Bro-ese and you could figure out what he meant even if he decided grunts and aborted hand gestures made for grade A communication standards.

“...to clean up and get out of your way?  Figured I’d fuck off before-- whoa, hey, Bro, what--”  You don’t get to finish that thought because what he does is nothing short of bully you to roll over before he squishes your face into the back of the futon.  It takes a solid twenty seconds after you go quiet to realize he’s spooning you.  Spooning, as in cuddling, as in his thick arm is resting over your side and curled around your chest like you’re his own personal stuffed Dave-bear.  “...what are you doing?”

“Sh’up,” he says, eloquent as ever, so you sh’up.  You’re still sticky and your comfort level falls into the realm of either _can’t breathe_ or _have to twist your neck to keep your face from being buried into the cushion_ , but other than that?  It’s nice.  Bro’s got his face tucked against your hair, warm breath slowing as he drifts back off and he’s clinging onto you and it’s nice.  So what; it’s Saturday, neither of you have anywhere to be and you decide that if you want a little more of a nap it won’t hurt anyone.

You really ought to talk about all this and you know it.  You consider doing it later but let’s be honest; you cram that thought into your brain’s inbox, file the entire stack of thoughts into the trashcan, and go back to sleep.


End file.
